That which cannot be forsworn
by Roses-in-Winter
Summary: Unsuspected circumstances and pure chance lead Hawke, Bethany and Anders back to Ferelden on their escape from Kirkwall. There, confronted with not only Anders' past, they find that a mage uprising is not all they unleashed. M!Hawke/Anders, Beth/Nate, etc
1. Hawke

That which cannot be forsworn

_Obviously, I do not own anything related to Dragon Age. _

_This is my first Dragon Age-fic. Please review and let me know what you think. _

_SPOILER WARNING: This story contains spoilers for Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Awakenings, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age II: Legacy and Dragon Age II: Mark of the Assassin, as well as the two novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling. Just so you know._

Chapter One

_**HAWKE**_

It was winter in Ferelden.

The air was cold and damp and smelled of snow, the ground was frozen solid. Every tree and bush was bare and brown, the dead leaves a thick, rustling blanket on the earth. Grey clouds hung low in the sky, like an oppressive mass of steel and granite. The stretch of rocky beach was deserted, not a human dwelling in sight, and all was still but for their footsteps and the unceasing lapping of the waves against the shore.

In the distance, the merchant ship was shrinking further away as the winds bore her back out towards open waters, her crew undoubtedly glad to be rid of their passengers. The ship was a heavy, cumbersome vessel and the voyage from Kirkwall had been painfully slow, despite the favourable winds on the Waking Sea. It had taken some careful persuasion and more than half of Hawke's coin purse to convince the captain to make a detour and set them ashore in Ferelden between Highever and Amaranthine before continuing on to Ostwick.

As they trudged up the slope and towards the narrow footpath, the cold air reached for every inch of exposed skin with eager clammy fingers.

Hawke hoisted his and Bethany's meagre pack higher on his back and kept walking, once more the undisputed leader of the little group. A hundred times and more they had walked like this, chasing down bandits on the Wounded Coast, tracking slavers through subterranean tunnels or hunting conspirators on the night-time streets of Kirkwall. Never before, though, had the silence between them felt this uncomfortable. He felt Bethany's glares like daggers, burying themselves further between his shoulder blades with each step, and the weight of Anders' misery hung around his neck like a millstone, weighing him down.

The road curved further inland, leading them away from the shore and past an expanse of empty fields, dotted here and there with clumps of trees. Once, they saw smoke coming from beyond a hill, but Hawke led them away from it and the other two followed in unspoken agreement. He was not ready yet to be among people and start pretending that everything was alright, that he and his companions were not from Kirkwall, no sir, and there was not enough blood and death in their past to drown a nation...

His thoughts kept coming back to that fateful moment in Kirkwall, when Anders' staff had struck the ground, once, twice... then the explosion, the screams everywhere and Sebastian's anguished outcry. He still could not wrap his head around it, after seven days in the damp, smelly hold of the merchant ship, seven days in which thinking had been his sole occupation, what with both his companions keeping a wall of icy silence around themselves. Of all the dangerous, reckless things Anders had ever done in the name of mage freedom and rebellion, nothing had ever made so little sense to Hawke. Nothing had ever seemed to much like the work of a madman.

The stopped shortly before night fell, settling down in the crumbling ruin of a small watchtower. The moss-covered walls and mouldy remnants of the rafters would provide at least some form of protection from the elements, even though they were lacking a proper roof.

Bethany took it upon herself to get a small fire going and Anders dug food and blankets out their packs. Strips of dried meat, some bread and a little cheese did not provide for much of a meal, but it was enough to clam rumbling stomachs.

Right after finishing her food, Bethany dragged her bedroll as far away from them as possible, wrapped herself in her blanket and settled down to sleep. She had yet to say more than three consecutive words to either of them since leaving Kirkwall... although leaving was probably the wrong word. Hawke had shared his plan with Varric only, realizing that time was of the essence. Knight-Captain Cullen had pulled his men back, allowing them to leave the Gallows courtyard, but for how long?

Varric had not liked the plan, it had been plain as day.

_Hawke, you just want to run, blindly? Lets stick together, at least for now..._

_We can't, Varric. Half of bloody Kirkwall is out for our blood already, and the rest will be, once they realise who it is they have to blame. _

_That's Blondie, Hawke. Not you. _

_Can't have one without the other, Varric. I knew what I was getting into with him. _

Had he really? He had dragged Bethany along, too selfish to let her go with Aveline and Donnic, too worried to leave her with Merrill and Varric. He had ignored her yells of protest, had ignored it when she'd spat the words "murderer" and "abomination" at Anders. He had ignored how his lover had flinched every time, as if those accusations were barbs piercing his skin. Did that mean that he agreed with her? No, he decided. Anders had once told him that he'd drown Kirkwall in blood to keep him safe, and he knew that he'd have done much worse to protect Anders, would have done so, even if Anders had blown up the entire city. Still...

Hawke settled down in front of the fire, long legs folded beneath him and his daggers by his side, within easy reach.

_Guarding the camp... yeah, right. _After staring into the fire like that for longer than a minute, he knew he'd be all but blind if something were to come at them out of the dark. Oh well.

His thoughts trailed back to Kirkwall once more. Hopefully, Bodhan, Sandal and Orana had come through the turmoil unharmed. Had Darry stayed with Aveline, as he'd been ordered to, or would the loyal mabari be sniffing around among the debris in Kirkwall even now, looking for his master? The thought was a painful one and Hawke felt his insides clench. He had left so much behind... countless memories that were simply irreplaceable.

After a short while, he felt Anders settle down next to him, but did not look up. The fire crackled merrily, and the warmth slowly seeped into his skin, dispelling some of the tension in his muscles.

"Why Ferelden?"

Anders' quiet question jolted him out of the almost-reverie.

"It's not exactly a small country," he replied without turning around, "besides, we are Fereldans. It should be easier to blend in here than, say, Antiva."

"Hm."

Silence fell once more, draping itself over the campsite like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating. Hawke felt Anders' presence beside him like and open flame and his hands clenched into fists with the effort it took not to acknowledge him.

"Are you ever going to look at me?"

_No! _he wanted to shout. _No, I won't look at you, because one look into those eyes of yours is all it will take, one look a those lips that I've kissed countless times, and I'll forgive you! Maker's breath, your voice is almost enough!_

"Haven't decided," was what he did say. The silence was fraught with all those words he'd left unsaid. "Fereldans aren't all that happy with Marchers, either, what with how they treated refugees. We can lay low here for a bit and then figure out how to... go on."

He felt the mage shift a little closer. The familiar scent of soap, candle smoke and elfroot crept over him, reaching for him with soft promises of past pleasure.

Anders' voice was nothing but a low, husky murmur. "You don't want to leave again, do you? You came back here because Ferelden is your home."

The tension coiled and snapped in Hawke's stomach and he knew that he was about to scream. Everything he'd kept bottled up inside since Kirkwall was about to come to the surface with that one mention of "home"... He didn't want to wake Bethany, but the effort of keeping his mouth shut was making his jaw hurt, so he rose to his feet in one graceful movement, grabbing the unsuspecting mage's arm and dragging him along, out of the ruin and out of immediate earshot of his sleeping sister. Anders stumbled along behind him, almost falling flat on his face twice, with only Hawke's vice-lice grip on his arm holding him upright.

The cold wind assaulted them mercilessly, away from both fire and shelter, and Anders wrapped his arms around himself as soon as Hawke let go of him. His eyes were full of questions, mixed with a good deal of anxiety and trepidation. Fear was an understandable reaction. Hawke imagined he looked livid, his fists clenching and unclenching, lips pressed into one thin line.

"You lied to me, Anders," he finally ground out, deep voice shaking with any number of suppressed emotions. "You took advantage of the fact that I'd do anything for you and made me an accessory to murder." He was marching up and down as he spoke. His breath hung in the air in milky white plumes, but he did not even feel the cold just then. "You told me you could free yourself from Justice and instead..."

He faltered, finally, coming to a standstill before the mage. His shoulders slumped, his expression helpless for once, and he stared at him.

"If you really loved me, Anders, then... how could you? How could what we had be just another means to an end?"

Anders was staring at the ground, barely visible in the almost complete darkness. He was the very picture of misery, his bony frame almost disappearing in the overly large coat they had purchased from the merchant, blond hair hanging around his face unkempt in snarls and tangles.

"It wasn't," he whispered. "Not in the way you think. I'd... like to say it wasn't me that did this, but that would be both too simple and untrue. I never wanted to hurt you, but... he won't let me give it up. Not when there is something to be done, something to be tried in order to make a difference. Some duties, some burdens... you can't just shuck them off. There are some things you can't go back on." He looked up then, amber eyes full of pain and self-loathing. "But you and me... that was truer than anything in my life. I swear it. You should have killed me, love. Spared yourself... this."

Hawke grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging through the woollen coat.

"I once swore I wouldn't lose you, to the Templars or Justice, and Maker's breath, I won't lose you now, after everything!"

"Ilan..."

"No! You think Ferelden is my home, well, it's not! It's not Kirkwall, it's not even Bethany... it's you, Anders. You're the one thing I just... cannot lose!"

It was true, he realised. He was still mad, furious, about what Anders had done, but being without him was just not an option. He might as well cut off his own head. His grip softened a little and he continued in a more gentle tone, "I love you, you sod."

He couldn't say who made the first move, but suddenly, Anders was in his arms, their lips meeting in a hungry kiss. It was the first time they had shared more than a cursory touch in a week, and the familiar ache of arousal flared up between them. Anders' hands laced through Hawke's hair, fisting in the glossy black curls, and Hawke breathed him in, revelling in the feeling of once again just being _close _to him in more than just proximity. Their bodies were pressed together, the heat between them dispelling the coldness of the night. Finally they pulled apart to breathe, and Hawke dipped his head to nip at Anders' neck instead, tongue darting out to that one spot beneath his ear that always had the mage's breath catch in his chest...

Not today, apparently, for Anders put his hands on Hawke's shoulders and pushed him resolutely away. An annoyed frown creased the rogues forehead.

"What now?" he started to complain, when slender fingers on his lips silenced him along with the expression of sudden apprehension on Anders' face. He was scanning the darkness around them intently, worry clouding his amber eyes.

Hawke pulled the hand from his mouth. "What is it, Anders?" he asked, in a quite different sort of voice. Whatever it was, it was serious.

"Something's close, Ilan... Something tainted."

"You mean...?"

"Darkspawn."

_And there it is... the first chapter. Chapter lengths may vary, content quality will improve... I hope. ;) Please be so kind as to leave a review. Thank you for reading._


	2. Anders

That which cannot be forsworn

_Obviously, I do not own anything related to Dragon Age. _

_This is my first Dragon Age-fic. Please review and let me know what you think. Also, English is not my first language. If you think something is wrong or doesn't sound right, feel free to let me know in a PM. I'd appreciate it._

_SPOILER WARNING: This story contains spoilers for Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Awakenings, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age II: Legacy and Dragon Age II: Mark of the Assassin as well as the two novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling. Just so you know._

Chapter Two

_**ANDERS**_

They ran back to their campsite at breakneck speed, stumbling over roots and getting their ankles caught in brambles in their haste. Had they really gone so far without realising it?

The twisting sensation in Anders' chest made his stomach roil. Darkspawn, here! Maker's breath, it felt as if the past six years had not happened at all, plunging him right back into the past. Amaranthine, the Wardens... if this was fate trying to tell him something, it did so with a pretty heavy hand.

When they stumbled back into the ruin of the tower, Bethany glared blearily up at them, shaken from her sleep by their racket, but otherwise clearly unharmed.

"Andraste's blood, what is the matter with you two idiots?" she groused, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes like a small child.  
>The tension visibly seeped from Hawke's shoulders and he allowed himself a single deep sigh. A moment later, however, he straightened up again and that which Anders had come to call the Champion's Mask firmly slammed into place. It was the way he had looked at the corpse of Saemus Dumar, before duelling the Arishok... also the way he had stared down at Anders after the explosion of the Chantry. It looked as if massive iron gates fell shut behind Hawke's clear blue eyes, his mouth hardened into a thin line and the muscles in his broad shoulders bunched, his entire body poised for an attack.<p>

"We must pack up camp," he announced curtly. "There are darkspawn... somewhere."

Bethany gasped. The colour bled from her face and she scrambled to her feet, haphazardly scooping up her blankets and trying to repack her bedroll. After a moment of watching this, Anders knelt down beside her and gently extricated her fingers from the tangle of fabric, repacking the bedroll himself. She sat back on her haunches, wrapping her arms around her thin torso and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

"How do you know?" she asked, her eyes intent on Anders. For the first time in a week, they were not filled with anger. "You... feel them? Does that not mean that they are close?"

He paused in his work, looked at her and tried for a reassuring smile. It came out as more of a grimace. "Yes... I feel them, and they are... well, not too far away. We need to hurry."

"And go where?"

That seemingly simple question gave them pause. Hawke, kneeling by the fire and about to extinguish it, looked at Anders, who had just finished packing the bedroll.

_Go where, indeed..._

"Away?" Hawke offered, a crooked, mirthless grin on his lips. "Just... run a little further?"

Anders shook his head, his mind reeling. "Not far enough, love... If I can sense them, they can sense me, I'm afraid. We need to get somewhere safe."

_And where else but _there_ can we go... Fate, indeed. _

He chuckled dryly. It had seemed inevitable, somehow, as soon as he had heard Hawke make the deal with the Captain to set them ashore near Amaranthine. How fitting...

"This is not the time to go mad, love," Hawke admonished him, while wrapping Bethany up in his own cloak. "If you have an idea, now would be the time."

Anders nodded, shaken from his thoughts, and straightened up again.

"Leave the fire. I know where we can go... it means backtracking a little, but we'll be safe." He drew a deep breath, once more fighting hysterical giggles. "We'll go to Vigil's Keep. I recognize this area. If we set a good pace, we will be there before dawn."

Silence met his announcement, broken only by the crackling of the flames and the indistinct sounds of the night.

"You _are_ insane," Hawke finally said, the expression in his deep voice wavering between pitying and awed. "Haven't you been running from the Wardens for the past six years, too?"

The mage frowned, rubbing a hand across his chest. "They knew where I was ever since we met Nathaniel. Commander Cousland would never turn away someone who's seeking aid... And right now, we don't really have a choice. The 'spawn can sense me, Ilan, so if we go anywhere else, we might lead a group of hurlocks right to an unsuspecting village. The Wardens will fight them gladly, it's this thing they do."

When Hawke still looked unconvinced, Anders nodded his head at Bethany, a very unsubtle reminder that it was not just only their safety they had to be concerned with. The rogue gave him an angry glare that clearly said _Unfair! _

Anders was beyond caring. There was no telling how many of the darkspawn there might be, where they had come from or how many might follow. Fighting was not an option.

Within minutes, they had the rest of the camp broken down and were back on the road, this time following Anders. He set a swift pace, keeping his staff in hand instead of on his back, and waved away all questions directed at him in order to concentrate. They were still there, lurking on the edge of his awareness, but coming no closer. Part of him wanted to be reassured, but another part insisted that the monsters might simply be preoccupied with easier prey.

Justice stirred within him, sliding beneath his skin, uneasy at the thought of running away while there might be innocents in danger.

_As if you care... _He gritted his teeth, the addition of the spirit's unrest within him brought with it the onset of a splitting headache. Justice snarled, the accusation had not gone unnoticed.

_Innocents died for our cause, Justice. WE killed innocents. For our bloody cause. _

The thought sickened him and at the same time left him unmoved... the dichotomy of his feelings was like physical pain and he stumbled for a moment as something behind his eyes flashed white. For a second, he expected to fall, the ground already rising to meet him, but then there was a hand at his elbow, catching him, steadying him against a warm, solid chest.

He looked up, into Hawke's eyes that looked like the sky on a beautiful spring day, even in the semi-darkness of the night, illuminated by the single torch in Bethany's hand.

_You still love me... it's clear as day in those eyes of yours. Dear, what have I ever done to deserve you...?_

He was speaking, Anders realised, he could see his lips moving, felt the hairs of Hawke's beard tickle his skin as his head lolled to the side and came to rest on Hawke's shoulder. But he heard nothing but the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his own heartbeat and, underneath it, the whisper of Justice and the low, sibilant hiss of the darkspawn.

Dimly, he realised that this was bad. It caused him tremendous effort, but he managed to raise his arm and pointed down the road.

"Just... go on... you'll reach..." He wanted to add something, anything, but the torch seemed to go out, for some reason. It was distracting, the light dimmed and he could no longer see Hawke's eyes. Was he slipping from his grasp, too, falling into endless space...? Up into the sky perhaps, the fear of every dwarf fresh out of Orzammar?

_Ilan, where are you?_

And then there was nothing but the endlessness of the Fade.

_A.N.: Again, the chapters will be of varying lengths. I wanted to write from different points of view, and instead of hopping from PoV to PoV in one long chapter, I thought I'd make several small ones. This also means that I'll update often. :)  
>Reviews would make me very happy. <em>


	3. Cousland

That which cannot be forsworn

_Obviously, I do not own anything related to Dragon Age. _

_This is my first Dragon Age-fic. Please review and let me know what you think. Also, English is not my first language. If you think something is wrong or doesn't sound right, feel free to let me know in a PM. I'd appreciate it._

_SPOILER WARNING: This story contains spoilers for Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Awakenings, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age II: Legacy and Dragon Age II: Mark of the Assassin as well as the two novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling. Just so you know._

Chapter Three

_**COUSLAND**_

Gillian glared at the piece of parchment on her desk as if frowning long and hard enough might cause the meaning of the words to change. Still, they remained there, stubbornly refusing to bow to her will. The missive had arrived two days ago, and though it had come in a tightly furled scroll, she had read it often enough that it now lay flat.

In plain sentences, Nathaniel's letter told her about what had happened at Kirkwall, about how he had witnessed everything from the moment Anders and Hawke had joined the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter in Lowtown, up until they had defeated the woman and he had lost sight of the two men in the ensuing chaos at the docks. Not only did if baffle her that Anders, whom she had known as more of a hedonist than anything else, would do something this radical and this utterly _stupid_, it also could not have come at a worse time.

This complicated matters.

Groaning, she pushed the letter away and stood up to stretch. Several joints in her back popped. The air in her study was stuffy, too warm from the merry fire in the hearth, and suddenly, it seemed difficult to breathe. Three quick strides took her to the window and she shoved it open, revelling in the sting of the cool night air on her face. The moon and stars were hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds that night, and the wind was so cold that a mere few moments at the open window brought tears to her eyes. Still, she did not move, she simply closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths.

For once, could things not go smoothly? Or indeed... could things not simply end? It was a thought she only admitted to herself in the solemn stillness of the night. She kept waiting for the nightmare to be over. A part of her, a small, fragile inch of her soul, still expected there to be a clap of thunder and then she'd wake up in her bed in her father's castle to her nephew Oren's insistent calling, or to her mother's gentle touch on her forehead. That part of her, however, the one that could still appreciate the beauty of a sunset or smile at playing children, grew ever smaller and more withered as the years went by and the tragedies kept coming.

More often lately, her thoughts took her back to the bloodstained floorboards of the larder at Castle Cousland, kneeling at her dying father's side and expecting the killing blow from one of Howe's soldiers. If only Duncan had not been there that day, it would have been so. He could have been anywhere, Denerim, Kinloch Hold, Orzammar, anywhere but Highever... and she would have died with her parents and been at peace. It was an utterly selfish thought, but as long as it remained no more than that, she felt she could not really be blamed.

Reality was quite different, anyway.

After the death of both the Architect and the Mother, darkspawn activity in Ferelden had finally gone done for a few years, but had never receded entirely. Lately, there had again been increasing reports of disturbing sightings.  
>Darkspawn, appearing on the surface, but staying out of sight. Scouting, perhaps. Her patrols kept hunting for them, but so far, they had stumbled over two hurlocks only who had not waited to be taken alive. Not that it would have mattered. Sigrun had assured her that they had not been of the talking variety.<p>

Taking a last deep gulp of fresh air, she withdrew back into her study, leaving the window only slightly ajar. Behind her, her bed beckoned with the promise of soft sheets and pillows, but she did not want to sleep. Sleep meant nightmares. Alistair had told her that some Grey Wardens were hardly ever bothered by them, while others never slept normally again. It was just her luck to belong to the latter category. Her dreams were not only haunted by darkspawn, though. Sometimes she saw her parents, her nephew, her friends from Highever. Remnants of an old life she could never reclaim. The only way for her to sleep peacefully was to drive her body to the point of utter exhaustion. During the Blight, during those months she had been with Alistair, his calm presence at night, his arms around her and the sound of his deep and even breathing had kept the nightmares at bay, too, but those nights were long gone now.

After a moment's hesitation, she snatched up her cloak, threw it on and left her rooms. The Vigil was quiet. Only a handful of soldiers were on guard.

Dressed in her hunting leathers instead of heavy armour, Gillian's steps were uncommonly silent as she slipped down the stairs, through the main hall and out the door. Bundled up in her cloak as she was, the cold lost much of its bite.

The sky was cloudy, but in the East, the first faint rays of sunshine began their tentative ascent over the horizon. She crossed the courtyard, still muddy from a few days of rain, and went up the stairs onto the parapet walk. The guards on duty in the watchtower did not even bat an eye when she appeared, nodding a greeting in their direction. It was a common occurrence for her to be up at the break of dawn and share a few hours of almost silent vigil with them. One of the men poured a cup from the pot of tea they kept heated on the coal brazier and handed it to her, which she accepted with a brief word of thanks.

"A quiet night, commander."

She shrugged, leaning against the wooden beam of the watchtower and lifting the cup to her lips to blow on the steamy liquid inside. "Most nights are. Enjoy it while it lasts, guardsman."

Carefully, she took a few sips. The tea was very dark and bitter, but the heat of it spread quickly through her body, warming every inch of her. Taste was secondary in that case.

They stood like that for a while, the guards chatting quietly amongst themselves. They knew to leave their commander alone when she was in a mood like that. Gillian closed her eyes, took another deep breath of cold air and tried to get her thoughts to quiet down as well.

_Be calm, calm... There is nothing to be done at the moment but simply _be. _That can't be too hard, can it...? Breathe in... breathe out... breathe - _

Her eyes snapped open and her free hand shot to her chest, clutching one of the leather straps of her light set of armour tightly. Had she really just...?

Gaze now intent on the horizon, she tried to reach out with all her senses at once. And at the same time as the familiar constricting sensation in her chest reoccurred, she saw the flickering of flames near the border of the forest.

She narrowed her eyes and squinted into the receding darkness. Again, a burst of flame lit up in the distance. Setting the cup of tea aside, she turned to the two guards.

"Oisin, I want you to take five men and ride out down the road. Something's there... There are darkspawn. Wake Warden Sigrun and take her with you." The older of the two men nodded and sped off down the stairs, no further instructions needed. Gillian spared him a glance and an approving nod before looking at the remaining guard.

"Darragh, call up the rest of the guard, have them man the wall and stand by to bar the gate." She didn't wait to see if she was obeyed or not, but then, she didn't have to. After six years, she knew she could count on her men in any situation.

She wore her swordbelt, as always, but had forgone both armour and shield when she left her rooms, expecting nothing more than a few hours of quiet waiting for the dawn of the new day. As she swiftly descended the stairs, her coat trailing behind her like a banner, she briefly contemplated returning to her room to get fully armoured, but decided against it. Darkspawn there might be, but it was not yet necessary to jump to the worst conclusions. She did rouse the other Wardens, rapping sharply on their bedroom doors, and then alerted the kitchen, where three cooks were already in the process of preparing breakfast. Still, they appreciated the heads-up that their charges would be more hungry even than usual, at an earlier hour.

Outside again, Gillian headed to the gate, one wing of which stood open, and waited while Sigrun's party headed out. The dwarven woman stopped for a moment to say good morning, a chipper smile on her tattooed face, despite the early hour.

The men of the guard assembled on the wall and near the gate, weapons on hand in case they should need them.

She could feel them staring at her, wondering just why they were on alert because of nothing more than a flash of fire and their commander's suspicion, but over the course of the years, they had learned to trust her. And Gillian was not about to take chances. She could still vividly recall what the Vigil had looked like the first night she arrived, overrun by darkspawn and all the Wardens slain. It had started similarly, too. Intelligent darkspawn, raids carried out in a fashion too organized to be random. Adding to that the reports she had received from Weisshaupt and the Free Marches and it was enough to make her worry.

They waited. The sun rose higher, cresting the horizon and dousing the land in pale, cold light. The men shuffled behind her, armour clanking and leather creaking, their voices a faint buzz behind her. It was still cold, the sun did not help in the slightest, and Gillian's face felt numb. Finally, Darragh called out from his post.

"They're returning, commander!" he shouted down into the courtyard, cupping a hand around his mouth. "They are not alone!"

"Open the gate," she ordered, and the hinges squeaked as the massive wooden doors were pulled open all the way.

Sigrun's party returned slowly. Three of the men were limping, one was leaning on another. Signs of battle were evident in their dirty and bloodstained armour, the muck and blood dripping from unsheathed weapons and their various cuts and bruises. None had fallen, however, and Gillian felt a brief surge of pride. Indeed, there were three more people than they had set out with.

She approached them slowly, her gaze lingering on two of the newcomers. They had to be brother and sister, by the similarities in their appearance and colouring. The man was tall, with broad shoulders, slim hips and the light, graceful gait of a dancer. His hair was black, like the girl's, unruly curls framing a narrow face with high, noble cheekbones and a pair of clear blue eyes. The short beard he sported made him seem older at first glance than he probably was, she would guess his age at about twenty-eight to thirty. His armour was mostly leather, it was battered and worn, and by the way his eyes moved constantly, assessing the potential danger of his new surroundings, she assumed that he had not bought it that way.

The girl was a mage. She knew it at once, not only from seeing the staff she clutched like a drowning man would a lifeline. There was something in her eyes -brown, cinnamon, unlike her brother's- and she looked too frail and too soft to be a fighter. Her skin was pale and looked like porcelain, just as delicate and fragile. Not only a mage, then, but probably an apostate, escaped from the Circle.

All the pieces fell into place when Gillian saw the third new arrival. Four of her men carried him on a cloak they had converted into a stretcher. He was uncounscious, but even so, his brow was slightly furrowed, his hands clenched into loose fists. The years had not changed his appearance much, save for the lines on his forehead.

As she came closer to the stretcher, she could see the man take a step towards the side, as if trying to put himself in front of her as a shield. Protective, indeed.

Gillian just smiled, fully aware now of the stroke of luck that just occurred.

_Thank you, fate. Almost makes one believe... _Her gaze went from Anders on the stretcher to the handsome stranger.

"Well, well..." she purred, her smile turning almost lethal. "...what have we here?"

_A.N.: Reviews would make me very happy._


End file.
